


No Regerts

by jellybeanforest



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Big Brother Kraglin Obfonteri, Bottom Yondu, Child Abuse, Comedy, Coming of Age, Corporal Punishment, Gen, GotG Kinkmeme Prompt, Guardians in the Last Chapter, Humor, Kraglin is a Bad Influence, M/M, Moderately Unsuccessful Solicitation of a Prostitute, Past Jealousy, RookerTrope Challenge, Smoking, Star Wars - Freeform, Top Kraglin, Underage Drinking, Yondad, Yondu Lives, embarrassing tattoos, kragdu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-17
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-07-13 15:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16020482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellybeanforest/pseuds/jellybeanforest
Summary: Peter comes of age, Kraglin takes him out for a disasterous night on the town, and both attempt to hide their matching tattoos from Yondu until they can get them removed.For the RookerTrope Challenge. Based on a LJ GotG Kinkmeme Prompt.





	1. Lessons

**Author's Note:**

> In ancient Sparta, boys were taught to be obey the law (a code if you will) but also encouraged to steal a lot. They were praised for getting away with theft but punished for getting caught. There’s a story, which might be apocryphal, of a young boy who stole a fox which he hid under a cloak. His trainer found him and questioned him about his activities, and he denied any wrongdoing. Meanwhile, the fox, being alive, clawed the boy’s innards out while he was being interrogated, but he kept quiet about it to avoid getting caught. Eventually, the boy died of his wounds, while still denying he stole anything. Basically, I think a Ravager childhood is a lot like a Spartan one with many of the same lessons.
> 
> A note for those reading my other WIP “Robbing the Grave”: the relationship between Peter and Kraglin is a bit more adversarial in this fic. Kraglin tolerates the kid mostly for Yondu’s sake and even likes him occasionally, but Peter is still a pain in the ass. Kraglin is also a bit more jaded, having joined the Ravagers as a very young adult, and as such, he doesn’t let Yondu walk all over him.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter is 83.4% sure he’s an adult. Yondu is 83.4% sure he’s full of shit, but just in case, he bribes Kraglin to take him out for the night. What could possibly go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the first scene, Yondu belts a 10-year-old Peter as punishment for destroying an M-ship and almost getting himself killed (scene inspired by “Broken Trust” by SunflowerSupreme). It’s basically background for why Peter and Kraglin would go to such lengths to hide their misadventure from Yondu. It’s not 100% necessary for understanding the rest of the fic, so if you want to skip it, you can jump to the “Present Day” bump.

**8 Years Earlier**

“Quill!” Yondu stomps down the corridor towards Peter as the latter attempts to quickly unscrew a loosened wall register. He lifts the grate with sweaty palms, but before he can squirrel away into the vents to weather the firestorm of his Captain’s temper in relative safety, Yondu latches on to the scruff of his jacket to drag him out, flinging him back onto the seat of his pants. He then snatches up the disoriented child, lifting him up by his leathers to bring his face in close.

“What the fuck did chu do to my M-ship, boy?” He asks, low and deadly. From experience, Peter knows Yondu’s quiet fury is much more terrifying than the loud bark preceding it. He fucked up, and if he doesn’t come up with something soon, his mercurial captain may finally make good on his frequent threat to serve him up to the crew on a rusted platter.

“Um, well… you see… I… um…” Peter sputters. When the boy fails to provide an acceptable answer fast enough for his fuming mentor, Yondu shakes him as if to dislodge a reasonable explanation from his person.

“Why is she all beat up, missin’ her landin’ gear, AND parked sideways in the hangar?” He asks again. Peter knows better than to make him inquire a third time.

“I… I just wanted to take it out for a spin,” Peter whispers through a swell of fear.

Yondu had recently taught him how to fly. _I’m a natural like Maverick in Top Gun_ , Peter had bragged right before Retch had bet him that he couldn’t execute a complicated series of flips and rolls through a nearby asteroid field. He hadn’t been able to pull off any of the maneuvers, but he managed to survive the run… barely. His borrowed M-ship wasn’t so lucky. Vaguely, a small part of him wondered if he survived the collisions only to perish by the hand of a much-less-forgiving force of nature: his Captain’s rage.

“You could’a died, you stupid li’l fucker!” Yondu bellows, his complexion nearly purple as he drops Peter, roughly spins him around, and pushes him against the hull.

“Bend over. Hands on the wall,” Yondu orders, as he pulls off his own belt, snapping it as it comes loose. Peter flinches at the sound. Yondu doubles it over, holding both ends in his right hand to form a looped switch.

“I’m sorry, Yondu. I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Peter begs, but he does as he is told. Delaying the inevitable would only anger the man and prolong his punishment.

“Ya will be,” Yondu says as he lets the first lash fly.

Hours later, Peter is lying in bed on his stomach, whimpering at the pain in his aching backside when Kraglin approaches.

“Hey Petey, missed ya at evenin’ mess.” Kraglin sits down at the end of the boy’s cot. Peter doesn’t stir to greet his unwanted visitor. “Thought ya might’a been in the stew after the stunt chu pulled today, but the chunk meat were too tough an’ stringy ta be baby Terran,” he jokes.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Peter croaks, his throat hoarse from screaming sometime after the third snap of the belt.

The ensuing silence is underscored by the soft tapping of Kraglin’s fingers against Pete’s thin mattress.

“Want in on a secret?” He asks the prone boy. At Pete’s hesitant headshake in the affirmative, Kraglin continues, “Ya don’t git punished ‘cause ya do wrong, Pete. Ya git punished ‘cause ya git caught.”

Kraglin exhales audibly, “So next time, don’t git caught.”

 

* * *

 

**Present Day**

Standing a bit straighter than he is wont to do, Peter makes his way to the Bridge, humming along to the soaring beats of _Ain’t No Mountain High Enough_ blasting through this headphones. He waves to Tullk, twirls to sidestep Brahl storming past him from the opposite direction, and sticks his tongue out at Tazie’s back after the man purposely bumped his rotund belly against Peter when he tried to squeeze past on the right. No matter. Nothing could dampen his mood, for today will be the best day of his Ravager life. It’s his probable eighteenth birthday and though he had long given up on receiving any celebration, acknowledgement, or leniency at such times, today was the day he crossed the storied threshold from child to man, and with the bloom of impending adulthood came all the freedoms and privileges merited by his new status.

“What’s got chu in such a good mood? Finally figured out how ta distill yer breakfast mash inta liquor?” Yondu surmises when he spies his generally-sullen ward’s unusually upbeat demeanor. “’Cause if ya did, ya have ta share. Cap’n always gits a cut.”

“No, not yet, but I’ll have you know, I’ve been keeping track of the solar cycles on my wrist comm since I figured out how to use the date feature, and I’m 83.4% sure I’m 18 today,” Peter announces, chest puffed out in triumph.

“And?” Yondu sounds unimpressed with his declaration.

He deflates fractionally. “On Terra, that’s when you’re considered an adult.”

“Is that so?” Yondu props his chin up on curled fist as he lounges back deep into the Captain’s chair. “I seem to recall you tellin’ me the same thing three years back when ya wanted me ta buy ya a ‘celebratory blowjob’ to mark the occasion,” he remarks skeptically.

He taps the four-eyed bobble-head lining his console, watching it spring back, wildly nodding its approval of his excellent memory. If only Quill could be so agreeable.

Peter nervously scratches the back of his head. “Technically, the fifteenth birthday, or Quinceanera, marks the transition from child to adult in some Terran cultures so I wasn’t _really_ lying,” he insists, making eye contact with the space just to the left and above Yondu’s head before belatedly dipping his gaze to meet the other man’s flat expression.

“C’mon Yondu, I’m being serious this time. The eighteenth birthday is a really big deal on Terra. I’m now legally allowed to do all sorts of shit: Fucking, drinking, buying smokes,” Peter counts off his new expected privileges on his fingers, “flying M-ships without a child tracker…” He spares a hopeful glance at Yondu at the last item.

The plastic tchotchke slows to a stop before Yondu flicks it again, hard enough to make it reverberate, its head bouncing wildly, quaking in fear at the gall of his boy. He scoffs, “That ain’t no child tracker. Can’t let chu run off with one o’ my M-ships stars-knows-where, not after the first time. I’m just keepin’ track o’ my property.”

 _When is he going to let it go?_ Peter thinks, rolling his eyes. By his reckoning, he’d already paid for that mistake several times over. “That was ages ago, practically a lifetime, and besides, you said the Milano was mine!”

“It weren’t that long ago, an’ I said you could pilot it. It’s a loaner. Yer just usin’ it fer now until you can afford to buy it off me,” Yondu counters.

“Stingy asshole,” Peter mutters under his breath.

“What chu call me?”

“Fit and swole. You’ve been working out?”

“I didn’t raise no kiss-ass, Quill,” Yondu drawls, but he subtly squeezes his flexed biceps, smirking at the taut muscle.

Unfortunately, for Peter, the rest of the day doesn’t go much better.

Ever so casually, Peter grabs a beer from the hodgepodge of mismatched bottles at the proximal side of the chow line during afternoon mess, placing it on his tray and moving down to receive his customary ladle of grayish-brown mystery stew. From behind him, Tullk wordlessly swipes the beverage from his possession, swapping it for a glass canister of rehydrated milk.

“Dude! What the fuck? That’s mine!” Peter protests.

“This’s fer men, Quill. We all know yer jus’ a wee brat,” Tullk says, blandly. “Now, be a good laddie, an’ drink yer milk ta grow big an’ strong like the rest o’ us.”

“I _am_ an adult. It’s my birthday today, and according to Terran law, I’m a grown-ass man, so give it back!” Peter demands rather childishly, trying to lean over Tullk to retrieve the stolen bottle.

Tullk holds it up and back, just out of his reach, pushing him away by the shoulder with his left hand for good measure. “Righ’ laddie. Ye ‘ave been sayin’ that fer a good while yet, an’ far as I know, Cap’n hasn’ deemed ye full-grown.”

Undeterred, Peter snatches yet another bottle from the communal pile, which Tullk confiscates once again, passing it to Vorker behind him.

“Hey, you fuckers! Stop holdin’ up the line with yer petty bullshit! Some o’ us are lookin’ to eat this year!” Gef bellows from ten spots back to approving grumbles of the surrounding hungry men.

Peter makes one last attempt to obtain his drink of choice, but he is again blocked by Tullk, who uses his superior bulk to push the lanky youth forward while simultaneously sliding his tray along to keep the line moving.

“I hear tell you a big man now, li’l Quill,” a Lumphomoid named Grommel tells him when he settles down across from Peter later. “Let’s say you an’ me… we git ta know each other a li’l better, yeah?” He slides his beer towards Peter.

Peter freezes, staring at the proffered bottle. He knows what it means, so he doesn’t touch it. “Naw. I’m good.”

“C’mon, Quill. It don’t bite,” he insists.

Peter fidgets in his seat, looking down into his stew. It wasn’t often one of the crew came on to him. Not after Cap’n had filleted the first one and served him up for the evening meal. Peter had refused to eat it despite Yondu’s demands that he show the crew he’s an apex predator unperturbed by something so insignificant as a little casual cannibalism. He would have gone hungry that day had he not learned how to pick the lock on Gef’s stash of ration bars.

“I’m not interested,” Peter says into his afternoon rations, as he pushes his lunch around with a plodding fork.

“An’ here I was thinkin’ you was a man, but yer jus’ a scared li’l baby,” Grom snarls.

“Ya know… it’s been a while since I ate one o’ you purple types,” Horuz says, dropping his tray next to Peter’s then taking the seat to his left. “Taste a mite gamey bein’ free range an’ all, but a li’l cumin should do the trick. Should pair well ‘nough with grubberries if we have ‘em.”

“Quill’s of age now. Look it how tall he’s got.” Grommel is still eyeing Peter like he wants to take a metaphorical bite out of him.

“Boy’s still a boy, accordin’ to Cap’n, an’ that’s the last word on that,” Horuz says simply. He leans over to pinch the other man’s thin forearm. “Yer a stringy sonuvabitch, so maybe Cook’ll braise ya slow.”

Grom smacks Horuz’s hand away then takes the beer as he exits.

Peter watches him leave, slowly exhaling the breath he had been holding. “Thanks, Horuz.”

“Don’t thank me yet, boy. You step out’a line, I’ll be the first one ta suggest we roast ya,” Horuz replies, giving him a slow appraising once-over, licking his lips. “It’s a damn shame you’ve lost most’a yer baby fat. Meat’s always better when it’s well-marbled an’ can baste in its own juices.”

Peter pushes his tray away altogether, having suddenly lost his appetite.

 

* * *

 

Quill’s predicament and discouraged demeanor in the aftermath of his failure to convince anyone he’d reached his age of majority had not gone unnoticed by the Captain. After making a mental note to assign Grommel to the first high-casualty mission they can manage, Yondu considers his young ward. It is true Quill has likely already reached his full adult stature, having surpassed even Kraglin in height. He is still thin but filling out and now needed to shave every few days. Perhaps the kid hadn’t been lying, and it was time for Yondu to cut the pouch-strings, so to speak.

He observes Peter trip over Retch’s extended foot while bussing his lunch tray, everything in his hands clattering to the floor in a mess of utensils and congealed stew.

Or perhaps Quill just needed a guide to help him navigate early adulthood... not a babysitter exactly but a chaperone. And not Yondu, obviously. Quill _respected_ him too much to really run wild on his first day as a full-fledged man. It would be too awkward for both of them for reasons that had nothing to do with any paternal feelings he definitely didn’t harbor towards the boy. No. He needed someone Quill would feel comfortable enough to experiment with the boundaries of his new privileges. Someone Yondu could trust to keep him out of trouble. Someone younger and less threatening… Someone like–

“Hey Cap’n, I still got a bottle o’ the good stuff from that last raid. Was thinkin’ you an’ me could drink it ‘fore we hit the brothels tonight. Have a li’l fun. What do ya say?” Kraglin says, a suggestive smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

_Perfect._

“I ain’t doin’ it.” Kraglin states later when Yondu calls him to his quarters for a private meeting. He had brought the liquor, expecting a good time, perhaps even a quickie up against Cap’n’s desk, and was severely disappointed when Yondu had turned it into an emergency parent/prospective-chaperone conference instead.

“Just take the kid out fer the night an’ make sure he don’t git into no trouble,” Yondu wheedles his first mate.

“Fuck no. Ya swore up an’ down when we picked up the brat that you’d handle all Quill-related duties. Ya said I don’t have’ta do shit fer ‘im if I don’t want’a. It’s our last shore leave before we have ta cross the Zehra Nebula. I ain’t spendin’ it babysittin’ li’l Quill. Take ‘im yerself.” Though sitting down, Kraglin straightens his back to his full height, crossing his arms and jutting out his chin to project an aura of stubborn resolve. Kraglin’s determination on this issue is comprised of the stiffest vibranium. He will not crumble nor bend to his Captain’s will in this matter.

“Quill don’t want his boss tailin’ ‘im,” Yondu reasons. His hand slips from Kraglin’s knee to massage his inner thigh. “If ya do it, I can think of many ways to repay ya…” He lets the implication hang between them.

Kraglin thins his eyes at the man’s poor attempt at sexual quid pro quo.

“1,000 credits,” he says, “Plus expenses.” Yondu already lets him fuck him on a fairly regular basis for free. He’s not about to chaperone a hyperactive man-child for the same privilege.

Yondu scowls, cursing Kraglin’s lack of imagination and general miserliness. “200 credits.”

“750 an’ I promise he’ll come back with no pieces missin’.”

“500 an’ if he’s missin’ pieces, I git a refund.”

“650. Plus expenses,” Kraglin insists. “Final offer.”

“Deal,” Yondu acquiesces, shaking on it. “But I want receipts.”

 

* * *

 

“C’mon Oblo, just do me a solid,” Peter cajoles Oblo, having already been turned down by a dozen other men.

Oblo shakes his head. “I ain’t takin’ ya to the surface. I don’t want the ‘sponsibility o’ watchin’ ya fer the night.” He’s not nearly dense enough to take on Cap’n’s breakable pet Terran, not for all the credits in the Eclector’s coffers. With his luck, the boy would get himself dead, and then Oblo would have to answer to Yondu’s yaka arrow but only if he was fortunate enough for Cap’n to be too incensed to remember to kill him slow.

Oblo tries to walk away.

Peter doesn’t take the hint, practically jogging alongside him to keep up. “You don’t have to watch me at all. I just need a ride.”

“An’ risk you losin’ an arm or scrapin’ yer knee or some shit. Fuck no.”

“Yondu doesn’t care if some men turn up dead during shore leave, so he won’t care if something happens to me. I swear I can take care of myself.”

He remains unconvinced. “You deaf or just plain stupid? I said no.”

Peter speeds ahead of him, turning about face to look his last chance at a night of freedom directly in the eye. “Would you change your mind if I told you today is my birthday?” He tries one last time, a tinge of hope in his voice.

Oblo just gives him a dry look and shakes his head. “Well, happy fuckin’ birthday, but the answer is still no,” he says, pushing past Peter.

_It was worth a shot._

Having failed to procure an M-ship for the night’s shore leave, Peter sits at his console later, his head resting on the dash, sullen.

_Some birthday this is shaping up to be._

Kraglin sneaks up behind Peter and slaps him on the back. Peter jumps, looking behind him to find the grinning first mate.

“Hey Petey, I hear yer old enough to be tried as an adult in Xandarian court. Congratulations,” Kraglin says.

“Thanks, Kraglin.” Peter responds disinterestedly, as he turns back to stare at the charts and trajectories blinking across his nav console.

Kraglin prattles on, cheerfully adding, “Yeah, I would’a bet money on you not makin’ it to yer age of majority, but small miracles an’ all that.”

Peter sighs loudly, “…Do you have a point?”

That’s unusual; Peter is not fighting back, failing to rise to the obvious bait. Perhaps Yondu was right, Kraglin muses. The kid could do with a win.

“Cap’n is making port tonight at Cellarene. What say you an’ me go out an’ celebrate proper?” He offers, feeling magnanimous despite the fact that Yondu was essentially paying him to be so generous to the kid.

Peter perks up from his somber slouch. “Really?”

“Yeah sure. Whatever ya want,” Kraglin considers his blanket offer further then amends, “Within reason.” Give the kid enough leeway on his leash and he’s liable to hang himself and Kraglin along with him when Yondu finds out.

Kraglin never offers to do anything nice for him unprompted, but Peter doesn’t question his good fortune. “Great! I have some ideas…”

Later, Peter would look back at this moment and reflect on his own naiveté. He is 18 and so full of hope and excitement; it’s as if he’d just crested a steeply-inclined hill to stand on the cusp of adulthood, overlooking the rest of his life with an almost childlike wonder. In his mind’s eye, the landscape is so beautiful and full of possibility. However, the reality is not so kind. It’s all downhill from here.

He has no idea what tonight has in store for him.

That poor ignorant bastard.


	2. Paint the Town (Ravager) Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Becoming an adult is not all it’s cracked up to be, but at least Peter and Kraglin escaped the experience with matching souvenirs.

Cellarene is a boom planet gone bust. Now a faint shadow of its past glory days, in a couple generations, it will be gone, its cities sunk in a planet-wide warm salt sea ranging in depth from thousands of leagues to a mere three feet in the shallows, approximately waist-high for the average Xandarian male. The original colonists had come seeking Fluvivalve, a large shelled mollusk with an iridescent mother-of-pearl interior the color of an oil spill in daylight, similar to the Terran abalone. They had established entire floating cities whose sole purpose was to process the valuable shells for jewelry and decorative finishes, discarding the creature’s tough flesh or processing it into a cheap stew for the poorer members of the populace. As Fluvivalve became ever more scarce then extinct, the colonies and its inhabitants were abandoned by the motherland, left to fend for themselves. Some, more-entrepreneurial individuals had turned the colonies into floating tourist destinations and resting posts for spacers, transforming their once-austere industrial floats into pleasure ports. The cities still rusted, needing frequent patching, but they decayed with style.

Presently, the duo stands outside a decrepit bar on the mean side of town. Kraglin had lit up, and Peter had asked to bum a smoke off him.

“Okay, Pete. When I light it, ya inhale to get it started, yeah?” Kraglin says, trying to flick a lighter in front of Peter’s huffer cigarette.

“Will you teach me to blow smoke rings?” Peter asks from around the cig in his mouth.

“One step at’a time, kid.” Kraglin’s lighter sputters to life before he touches it to the end.

Peter inhales. Coughing almost immediately, he pulls the cigarette out with one hand, hacking into his other fist.

“Yeah, this brand ain’t the smoothest,” Kraglin comments blandly, unsurprised at Peter’s reaction. He puffs on his own, tapping the ashes off the end down to the nub.

“St– Stars. Is it – is it always like that?” Peter manages through his coughing fit.

Kraglin sucks in another smoky breath, exhaling slowly in Peter’s direction. “Only if yer a pussy.”

“…Dick.”

Peter is about to flick his cigarette away when Kraglin stops him. “Waste not, want not,” he says, quickly smoking the rest of Peter’s, having already finished his first.

“So… not a fan of those,” Peter states, “But I bet I’ll like drinking. C’mon, let’s go in already!” He nearly bounces towards the entrance to the bar, Kraglin following a ways behind him. It might not be the best start to their excursion, but the night is young, and there’s so much left to do. Drinking. Women. Sex! Peter is finally a man and before him stretches a world of boundless possibility.

If only he knew how cutthroat that world would be, he might have known to temper his expectations and emerge unscathed, with his pride mostly intact.

“Did chu tell 'em it was yer birthday?” Kraglin asks him, eyeing Peter’s shot glass. He had ordered two shots of their highest proof liquor. The one in front of Pete contained a small grubworm, but Peter figured it was more a bonus feature than a sign of unsanitary conditions.

“Yeah… why?”

Kraglin lifts Peter’s drink, scooting his own in front of the boy. “They’re tryin’a mess ya up proper. Ya never eat the worm, ya hear?”

“Why’s that?” Peter asks. The bug is a curved sliver of a thing dancing across the bottom of the glass in tune with Kraglin’s sloshing. He had eaten more gnarly-looking things on the Eclector. By comparison, this was fairly innocuous.

“Hey, just tryin’a save ya a trip to medbay, but if ya want’a cut out early ta git yer stomach pumped, then by all means, go on ahead.” Kraglin holds out the shot glass to Peter, who wisely opts to grab Kraglin’s original drink instead. “Look it that, yer already makin’ the smart decisions,” he says condescendingly.

Frowning, Peter lifts his middle finger off his glass to subtly flip off Kraglin.

“Cheers to you, too,” Kraglin replies, clinking his shot against Pete’s. “May we both live through the night.” He drains the glass, using his teeth as a filter to prevent ingestion of the worm, before slamming it back down on the bar.

Not to be outdone, Pete takes a sip himself, only to spit it back out, hacking through the burn. He closes his eyes as his tongue attempts a valiant but ultimately unsuccessful escape from his mouth. “Why – why do adults like things that taste like exhaust fumes and engine fluid?”

“It’s an acquired taste,” Kraglin concedes. “Now, we callin’ it a night? I can have ya back on the Eclector right quick. Just say the word.” This was turning out to be the easiest 650 credits he had ever earned, and once he flew Peter back, he could return and run up the bar tab on Yondu’s dime to later submit as expenses as per their agreement. Maybe get some of that top-shelf shit. That’ll teach the bastard an expensive lesson about asking him to do anything for the Terran brat.

“Hell no! I’ll acquire a taste for this even if it kills me.” Peter refuses to admit defeat. Smoking and drinking may not have measured up to his lofty expectations, but he is certain he’d enjoy at least one adult activity. He takes another sip, pulling a face at the taste. “Besides, I haven’t even had a chance to charm the ladies. If I miss out now, it’ll be months before I get another shot at getting laid.”

 _Damn it,_ Kraglin thinks.

“Alright… How ‘bout that li’l lady o’er there. She looks like she’s workin’ tonight.” He indicates a curvy woman at the other end of the bar wearing a black mini-dress so tiny, it barely covers both her bountiful breasts and ass. She looks bored as she taps a huffer cig into the ash tray next to her.

Peter glances over at her before replying, “I don’t know if I want to pay someone. It’s my first time, and I sort of want it to be special, you know?”

“Not really.” Kraglin’s first time had been with a significantly older man in a dark back alley in the slums of Xandar, and after it was over, the man had shorted him twenty credits, fucking him over in more ways than one. He still remembers the look on that man’s face as he came, but he thinks he prefers the memory of his face, full of pain, fear and surprise, when Kraglin stuck his knife in that same man’s gut two weeks later.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Figures,” he mutters, rather callously.

Kraglin pushes the boy off his stool in retaliation.

“Hey! What the fuck was that for?” He looks around to ensure his embarrassing tumble hadn’t been witnessed by any prospective ladies in the vicinity. He didn’t want to hurt his chances with any of them after all.

“Fer bein’ a dumbass.” Kraglin simply holds up two fingers to the bartender, who in turn pours out two more shots, one for each of them. “Now, drink up, but try to throw it back this time. Don’t savor it on yer tongue ‘less yer lookin’ ta burn off yer sense o’ taste. This shit ain’t fancy.”

Five shots later, Peter is practically holding on to a support beam as he strikes out with the tenth woman that night.

He stumbles back to Kraglin at the bar, narrowly missing his stool when he tries to sit down. He grips his seat, trying to keep it steady as he wobbily crawls onto it headfirst, awkwardly turning halfway through to sit proper, his hands lie limp to his sides as he grasps the bottom of the stool for balance. “Hey… No tricks. Is my birthday, an’ I dun want ya ta tip me o’er no more.”

Kraglin orders yet another round. “So, that last one was a no-go?” He already knows the answer.

“I dun know wha’ the prob’em is, Krag-lin,” Peter says despondently, throwing back his fresh shot. “Nobody ‘ere likes me, not even you.”

Kraglin is silent at that. Perhaps he had been a bit too hard on the brat. It _is_ his probable birthday, so maybe he could help him out. Just this once. He scopes out the patrons of the bar, zeroing in on a duo of pretty Krylorian women sitting at a table. “Okay Pete, I’ll tell ya what. I’m goin’a chat up those ladies over there. I want chu to wait ten minutes, then come over so I can introduce ya all natural-like. Ya think you can do that?”

Peter follows the older man’s line of sight then nods his agreement.

Kraglin finishes his drink in one gulp then swaggers over to the women in question.

After eight minutes had elapsed, Peter wobbles over to make his grand entrance, practically draping himself over Kraglin’s entire back for balance.

Kraglin coughs to clear his throat, resisting the urge to shrug off the boy. Based on his drunken gait and how heavily he’s leaning against him, Peter is about two drinks past shitfaced and speeding headlong into blackout drunk.

“Oh hey, Pete. Are you all right there, buddy?” Kraglin says, trying to salvage the situation. “This is Supiit and Bera. They’re apprentices at a local chop shop. They know all ‘bout M-ships. Ladies, this is my friend I was telling ya ‘bout. He’s young, but he’s shapin’ up ta be one o’ our ace pilots. Ain’t that right, Pete?”

“Yer so pretty,” Peter slurs at the woman closest to him. “I like yer hair.” He tries to reach out and touch the silky dark tresses but misses, mashing his clumsy fingers across her bright pink nose.

She pushes him away, looking slightly disgusted, but before she can slap him, Kraglin quickly intervenes. “Sorry fer my friend ‘ere. He ain’t usually like this,” he says, standing to pull Peter away, talking over the boy’s protestations. “I think I’ll take ‘im back home. Have a nice night… an’ another round. On me.” _On Yondu._

Waiting for the bartender to process his receipt at the bar, Kraglin tries to convince Peter that the night is a wash. “Let’s jus’ go home. No woman’s goin’a let ya paw her like that. Fuck, ya can’t even walk straight.”

“No, c’mon please, Krag-lin? It’ll be months ‘fore next shore leave, an’ I could be dead by then. I don’ want’a die a virgin. Please?” Peter begs, his hands loosely fisting the leather of Kraglin’s sleeve.

Kraglin is not insensitive to the fact that in their line of work, there are no guarantees of tomorrow. Furthermore, Pete appears to be solely attracted to women, unfortunately, and therefore would not have any opportunities amongst the Eclector’s all-male crew over the coming months.

In his current state, Peter’s options are severely limited, but Kraglin knows one way to grant the boy’s request, if it was really that important to him.

“Listen Petey… Why don’t chu just let me take ya to a brothel? My treat. You want’a have a good time, yeah? Well, those women really know how ta please a man,” he reasons. “That’s why they’re called professionals. You pay ‘em to say yes.”

Peter considers it then sighs. “Alrigh’, Kraglin… we’ll do it yer way.”

 

* * *

 

Peter leans heavily on Kraglin as they make their way towards the Silk Tassel several blocks over. He is too drunk to appreciate how quickly the grubby slums give way to bright lights and cleaner streets. _Look Kraglin, they put stars in the sidewalks. ‘S pretty,_ Peter had said as he stared downwards, concentrating on putting right foot in front of left and vice versa. _They use mica in the cement ta git it all glittery like that,_ Kraglin had answered, focused on ferrying Pete to their destination.

Halting in front of a large building, Peter can afford to stop watching his feet to look up, gazing upon the nicest brothel in the city: the legendary Silk Tassel. A boxy edifice decorated with faux columns and pearlescent inlays, it had once been the downtown mansion of a flamboyant third-generation Fluvivalve tycoon turned third-rate politician. His excesses in life had forced his estate to liquidate its holdings to pay off his debts. The Silk Tassel, previously called a more-respectable Cardinal House for its crushed red velvet interior furnishings and draperies, was one such asset that had since been turned into a high-class brothel, decorated in the old style to evoke a time of opulence and plenty for their guests. As such, it was one of the swankier joints in town. Kraglin would never have selected such a place for himself, but he reasons it’s Peter’s first time, and he isn’t paying, so…

“Whoa… Looks expensive,” Peter nearly shouts into Kraglin’s ear, having lost all volume control several drinks back.

“Yeah… let’s go in,” Kraglin replies, dragging Peter across the threshold.

Inside, they are welcomed by the Madame of the establishment, dressed in a finely-tailored red suit and pearlescent bow-tie to match the interior, her dark hair slicked high into a carefully-coifed pompadour and a ghost of rouge applied sparingly to her bone-white cheeks. Her only hint of surprise at the lowly caliber of their newest guests is a slight pause before her oft-repeated spiel, delivered in an affected high-class accent.

“Gentleman, welcome to the Silk Tassel. We have many lovely ladies that would be honored to entertain such _esteemed_ guests as yourselves,” she greets them. At the snap of her fingers, the available prostitutes line up.

“Miss Fostina here is studying to be a nurse and is well versed in the erogenous zones of several species,” the Madame says, gracefully indicating a Kree woman with a flourish. Turning to an Aakon woman, she continues, “And Miss Stript is a former librarian with a particular interest in the erotic ar–“

“Yeah an’ that one o’er there is runnin’ fer a senate seat o’ the entire pleasure district. I’m sure they’re all accomplished an’ interestin’,” Kraglin interrupts to the Madame’s displeasure. “Look, we don’t need the whole sales pitch. This’s just fer the brat’s birthday, an’ he ain’t that picky.” He turns to the ogling boy beside him. “Okay, Petey… which one ya want?”

Peter stares down the line of lovely ladies before his eyes fixate on a tall, wonderfully-buxom woman at the end. Kraglin follows him as he staggers over to his desired lady of the evening, coming to a wobbly stop in front of her. He sways slightly, as if he’s a new recruit still finding his sea legs.  “’Ello there. Wha’s yer name, Miss…”

“Sclera,” the woman says, her answer a hiss through her needle-like teeth. She slips a gelatinous grey-green speckled tentacle over his shoulder, the suckers on the end sticking to his neck, leaving light marks with the potential to develop into hickies if she applied more pressure.

She wouldn’t have been Kraglin’s first choice… nor his tenth, if he was being brutally honest. “Ya sure, Pete?”

“Are ya blind, man? She’s got the best assets here.” He’s talking about her soft, pert breasts, but Kraglin is too distracted by her voluminous tentacles to notice.

Kraglin shrugs. He doesn’t quite see the appeal, but then again, it’s not his call. If Peter wants to wake up looking like he’s suffering from a bad case of space pox, then that’s his prerogative.

“Alright. I’ll just be at the bar o’er there. Come git me when yer done.”

“Ya won’t be gettin’ one, too?” Peter slurs, face sinking into the woman’s soft chest as he warps his arms around her undulating waist to remain upright. From an outsider’s perspective, he appears to be undergoing phagocytosis by a sentient amoeba.

Kraglin shakes his head in the negative. His _thing_ with Yondu may not be completely monogamous, but they have an unspoken pact, the rules of which had been established over the years through missteps, anger, and revenge. Precedent clearly stipulated additional sexual partners require prior approval from the other party. Cap’n’s last indiscretion had learned that lesson the hard way. Kraglin had made quite the bloody mess with that one. Yondu had been pissed of course, but he hadn’t spaced Kraglin for his imprudent display of territorialism, so…

“Naw, ain’t my style, but you go on ahead an’ have fun now,” he waves off Peter before heading to the bar for another drink or three. Peter doesn’t hear him ask the Madame for a receipt as she processes payment, too busy being carted off by his chosen woman.

Once enclosed in a private room, Sclera’s tentacles slip under Peter’s shirt, her suckers like a hundred mouths sliding over his sensitized skin, leaving soft kisses along the way. Peter moans at the contact, but he wants… something, he’s not sure what, but perhaps he’d like to know her a little better before they engage in the main event.

“Baby… Why don’t cha slow down a bit an’ tell me a li’l ‘bout yerself,” Peter says, pulling the prehensile limbs from his torso to better concentrate on other matters. He wants to know about her childhood, her desires, her dreams. Who is this person with whom he’ll be sharing such a treasured memory? He must know.

“Like… wha’s yer favorite color?”

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the deepest question he could have asked.

Sclera humors him. “My speciessss doesn’t seeee colors like your’s, but I am fond of what you Xandarians call ‘infrared.’”

“Mine’s green. Hey, our favorite colors together are Christmas. I love me some Christmas,” Peter replies, his face draining to a pallid hue. He doesn’t feel well. His stomach turns in on itself, and his head is light as his vision tilts the room on its axis.

“I am not familiar with this ‘Criss-masss.’ Is that a small algae float?” Sclera asks. Occasionally, their city would pass by entire plumes of red algae netted together, a veritable buffet that attracted small sea creatures she preferred to tear into and swallow in large bloody lumps. “Enough of this talk. I desire to whet my other appetites tonight…” she murmurs seductively, her tentacles sliding into Peter’s pants as she leans in for a kiss.

Peter retches. It’s Sclera’s only warning before he vomits all over her lower face, splattering her impressive breasts and dripping down the front of her clothing.

The next five minutes are a blur as Sclera abruptly retracts from him, screaming and trying to brush off his acidic vomit with her many tentacles. Security busts in to pull Peter from the room, frog-marching him to the foyer where Kraglin intervenes, punching out the guard on Peter’s right while pulling the boy close to him and threatening the other with a knife if he didn't let go immediately.

Needless to say, both receive lifetime bans from the Silk Tassel, not that Kraglin minds much.

“Yeah! Well, I’ve been kicked out of fancier joints than this!” He shouts as he hauls Peter out the open door before turning and flipping off the Madame over his shoulder. “Also, yer booze is watered-down an’ overpriced!”

It’s not. That’s a lie.

Kraglin had anticipated sitting at the brothel’s bar for a good hour and had drunk accordingly, expecting to process the effects of another few rounds in relative warmth and comfort, relaxing amongst the decorative pillows of a plush chaise lounge. However, as a result of their premature ejection, Kraglin’s pleasant buzz from the earlier bar had worsened into full-blown public drunkenness.

“Did… did I just have sex?” Peter asks when they reach the sidewalk.

Kraglin reckons Pete must be way more impaired than he had previously assumed. However, having gone through the age-old male bonding experience of being booted from an establishment of questionable morality together, Kraglin doesn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. “…Sure did, Petey.”

“…Did I like it?” Peter hesitates to ask.

“Yep.”

“Awesome.”

Kraglin leads as they stumble down the street back towards his M-ship, hoping to sleep off their inebriation before returning to the Eclector in the morning, when a small tattoo parlor advertising a two-for-one deal catches their eye. They stand outside the store front, peering inside at the walls covered in rotating screens of sample tattoos and a row of black reclining chairs in the back.

“Wha’ do ya say, Kraglin? You. Me. Tattoo buddies? ” Peter slurs, squinting at the sign, trying to make sense of the words, but all he can understand is the curling graphics, indicating a standard tattoo shop.

Kraglin glances over to read the sign. “Couldn’t hurt to look.” Kraglin could never resist a deal, and buy one, get one was a pretty good one as far as sales go. That was almost free to his liquor-addled mind.

“Alrigh’!”

“Wasn’t a yes. Was a maybe. A very _very_ soft maybe,” Kraglin insists.

Once inside, Peter wastes no time in catching the attention of the tattoo artist. “Gimme a tattoo o’ Yoda,” he declares, “Right ‘ere ova m’ heart.” He pats his right collar bone, completely forgetting the particulars of Terran biology.

“Who?”

“You know… Yoda. The greates’ mentor to a Skywalker tha’s ever lived?” Peter says. He stacks his fists together one on top of the other, swinging them out in front of himself as he attempts to imitate a lightsaber. “Vrummmummmmummm Vrummm FVIFFFF!” He hums, drooling a bit at the end.

Despite the extra-legal nature of his customers, the tattoo artist is not without his qualms, particularly after witnessing Peter’s questionable display. For one, there’s no way a grown man would act like the clearly-immature boy standing before him, and two, whatever he was doing with his mouth didn’t clarify the identity of this “Yoda” in the slightest.

“I’m not sure…” he begins.

“Kid’s old enough. Give’m what ‘e wants,” the dangerous man standing behind the boy looks vaguely threatening as he pushes him forward. His smile, which shows a bit more metallic tooth than is completely necessary, promises trouble if he persists in denying the boy.

The tattoo artist takes in the attire of his new clients to deduce Peter’s intent.

Flame patches screamed Ravager. Red leathers in particular meant a very specific, very exiled clan.

“You mean Yondu? Yondu Udonta?” The boy is a spacer, which is a sort of ‘skywalker,’ and the misguided youth clearly looks up to the fearless Captain as a mentor, though with his sloppy, puppy-dog composure, he has a way to go before before he can count himself among the man’s peers.

“Yeah, yeah… Yodu, li’l fella, old as shit,” Peter confirms.

“Ain’t that old, Pete,” Kraglin protests. “An’ ya best not let Cap’n hear ya call ‘im small if ya value havin’ shins. He’s liable to take ya down a peg or six. Maybe even lop yer extra height clean off the top.”

“I didn’ say nothin’ ‘bout Cap’n. ‘Sides, no snitchin’,” Peter mumbles, “Stitches get snitches.”

Twenty minutes later a bleary-eyed Peter is shirtless, reclining back in the leather barber chair as the man swipes through a series of reference photos on the screen in front of him. Peter can barely see through his drunken haze. The booze must also be affecting his color vision, because all the pictures look fuzzy blue instead of the customary green he had expected.

“That one,” He says, pausing on a black and white photo. Bald head, pointy ears, decidedly not blue. It was a nice headshot of the iconic mentor.

Classy.

“Um, you sure, kid?” The tattoo artist asks. It’s an early mug shot of Yondu snarling and flipping off the Nova Corp scanner, taken at a time when the metaphorical chip on his shoulder was larger than the crystalline chip jutting out of his head.

“Yeah, yeah… Is’sa classic,” Peter slurs, squinting at his selection.

The tattoo artist prepares the site across Peter’s collar bone, as requested, but before he can lay the first line, Kraglin peaks over at the prospective tattoo.

“Hold up! What the fuck are ya doin’?” he exclaims, stopping him in his tracks. The tattoo artist breathes a sigh of relief. As the kid’s not-so-legal guardian, the man – Kraglin – was clearly going to put a stop to this madness. It was obviously a ploy to teach the kid a lesson about making permanent decisions under the influence of alcohol, but the lesson had gone on far enough.

Kraglin pulls the holoscreen closer to examine the photo. “That picture looks nothing like ‘im. Don’t capture his purty eyes and smile right.” Leaning heavily against the arm of Peter’s chair for support, he pulls back his sleeve to reveal his own wrist comm. Activating the holo-projection feature, he scrolls through a veritable treasure trove of personal photos before settling on one he finds satisfactory. “Use this one.”

The tattoo artist nearly chokes on his own surprise. Hovering before him is Captain Yondu Udonta, feared leader of a lawless band of dangerous space pirates, standing angled in such a way that can only be described as a coy, pin-up pose, similar to that of tattoos of women adorning many a spacer’s arm.

Who was this man? How the fuck did he have a photo of the notorious captain in such a compromising position? Was it for purposes of blackmail? The tattoo artist doesn’t want to know, valuing his own gonads over his curiosity.

“This one?” He asks instead, his voice high and strangled.

Kraglin is too drunk to notice. “Yeah. This’s way better’n that crap Petey picked. The boy’s too drunk to make impor’ant decisions like this. He’ll thank me later, just you watch,” Kraglin says. He shudders to think what might have transpired. Truth told, they had barely averted disaster. Imagine: Peter walking around with Yondu’s grimacing mugshot pasted across his collar bone? Tattoos are permanent after all.

Kraglin looks on as the tattoo artist etches the delightful curve of Yondu’s ass.

“Tha’s a right purty likeness. Ain’t half bad,” Kraglin says as he observes the developing tattoo. “You know what? I’ll have what he’s havin’,” he declares, peeling off his leathers to the waist to expose his spindly torso already marred with a series of boxed spiral amateur prison tattoos.

“Really?” Pete turns in Kraglin’s general direction, eyes barely focused on the older man.

“Yeah, Petey,” He lifts his arm to point to a blank spot on the ribcage at his side. “I’mma git it right ‘ere.”

“Hell yeah! Tattoo buddies! Ya won’ regret this Kraglin!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GotG Kinkmeme Prompt in Full:
> 
> Peter decides to get a tattoo and wants it to be something from Terra. Forgetting that no one off Terra has ever heard of Star Wars, he says he wants Yoda. The tattoo artists knows he runs with the Ravagers and, having no idea who Yoda is, figures Peter means Yondu and tattoos either a picture of Yondu or his name on Peter.
> 
> Bonus if it's somewhere really embarassing.


	3. Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kraglin urges Peter to come clean to Yondu about his tattoo… until he realizes too late he has the matching pair.

“I regret everything,” Peter whimpers, gently cradling his pounding head as he lies across Kraglin’s cot in the fetal position, achy, nauseous, and slightly clammy.

Kraglin has little sympathy for the boy’s self-inflicted condition. “Hell, Pete. I knew ya couldn’t fight or kill like a Ravager, but least I thought chu could drink like one of us.”

“How… how do you do this on a regular basis?” he moans miserably, glaring up at the other man, envious of his seemingly unaffected composure. “How are you even standing right now?”

“Had worse, but hey, times like last night are the reason we all have two livers.” In truth, Kraglin is doing an admirable job of hiding his own hangover and the worrying blank spots in his memory. He hoped he had fun at least, but considering his company for most of the night, perhaps those memories were best left forgotten, lost in the foggy black of his fractured recollections.

Peter curls into himself further, pulling the covers over his head, before issuing his muffled retort: “I’m pretty sure Terrans only have one of those…”

“’Nother reason why you’ll never be a proper Ravager,” Kraglin drawls, tugging the blankets off Peter’s body, exposing him to the chill and blinding light of artificial morning.

“Fuck you, too…” Peter tries, and fails, to retrieve his confiscated blankets before burying his face under Kraglin’s pillow and flipping off his heartless companion. “Stars, I’ll never drink again. I swear.”

Taking pity on the boy, Kraglin rolls his eyes as he bends down to sift through his opened footlocker. Finding the sought-after item, he holds out a vial containing an ink-black substance. “Here. Take this. Old Obfonteri family recipe. Should sort chu out right quick.”

Peter sits up to accept the proffered home remedy, gingerly holding it between thumb and middle finger as he tips it one direction then the other, observing how the viscous fluid coats the glass. “Do I even want to know what’s in this?”

He pops the top and holds it under his nose, lightly sniffing the dark liquid within for clues to its identity and taste. The scent is strongly herbal with a slight undertone of sweet rot. His nose crinkles at the pungent scent as he recoils from the vapors.

“Ain’t poison…” Kraglin responds nonchalantly.

That’s good enough reassurance for Pete, who downs the contents in one swallow. He immediately starts gagging at the taste of sweet vomitus. 

“…but it will make ya wish it was.”

Peter rushes to the adjacent bogs, practically stumbling over wobbly feet in his haste to make it to the bathroom before spewing all over Kraglin’s sheets and his own clothing.

Over the next several minutes stretching to eternity, he hugs the metal bowl and wonders if this is what rock-bottom feels like. He renews his vows to whatever fates are listening that he will never drink again if only his head will stop pounding and his stomach cease its violent rebellion against the rest of his body. He gives in to its demands, emptying its contents until he’s dry, and rests his cheek against his arms crooked around the seat, heavy and boneless like pudding.

Moaning, he slides back onto his haunches and uses the toilet as leverage to lift himself to his feet before shuffling to the sink to clean up. He rinses out his mouth and washes his face, clearing the residual sick that had dribbled out, before peering up at his reflection in the chipped mirror. His skin is pallid, accentuating the dark circles under his eyes. His reddish-brown hair sticks wet to his forehead from a mixture of sweat and sink water. He’s patting at the skin of his cheeks, attempting to re-introduce a little color, when he sees it. Peaking out of the top of his stretched out shirt is a rounded blue edge. He tries to rub it away, revealing more of the hidden tattoo beneath. Fear clenching his insides, Peter pulls the neck of his shirt down further, revealing the horrible truth.

He’s shrieking when Kraglin barges in shortly after.

“Stars alive, Pete! Didn’t I tell ya not to eat the worm!” He shouts from the entrance as he peers over Peter’s shoulder to view his panic-stricken reflection. “Don’t worry; we’ll get chu to Doc an’ he’ll deworm them babies out’a ya good as n–”

He stops, having followed Peter’s line of sight from his reflection down, only to be greeted by Yondu’s playful grin as his miniature doppelganger strikes a seductive pose across the boy’s right collarbone.

“Aw fuck. What chu gone an’ done now?” Kraglin spins the boy around to better examine his new ink. He prods the tender flesh of the tattoo and frowns when his finger comes away dry.

“What the hell! How the fuck do I have _Yondu_ tattooed on my body, and why is he posed like that?” Peter screeches, eyes still drawn to that blue vixen mocking his plight. Somehow, some way, this disturbingly-sexy version of Yondu understands and delights in his ward’s distressing conundrum. _Typical._

Kraglin recognizes the pose as one of his favorites from his personal stash but declines to divulge this information to the agitated boy, instead musing, “I must’a been drunker than I thought last night. I barely ‘member the tattoo parlor.”

“I vaguely remember it, but I would have asked for something cool,” Peter whines, pointing accusingly at Yondu’s likeness as if its permanent presence on his skin is somehow its fault. “How did I get… this?”

His irritation rising with Peter’s own frustration, Kraglin snips, “I don’t know, Pete. Got’a crush on Cap’n ya want’a tell me ‘bout?”

“No! He’s gross and old and an asshole and…” _the closest thing I’ve got to a father._

Kraglin cuffs him on the back of the head. No one insults Cap’n.

“…Well, there’s no way ‘round it. We have ta tell him.”

“What? No way! What we have to do is hide it forever, or at least until I can get it removed planetside,” Peter exclaims, furiously rubbing the tattoo in a frantic test of permanency. Unfortunately, the lines stay frustratingly clean and vibrant.

“We’re due for a long haul. We ain’t dockin’ fer two months. We can’t keep it from Cap’n that long,” Kraglin says sensibly. “You can see the top o’ it peakin’ out’a the neck o’ yer shirt and stars know how yer goin’a be able to hide it with how often ya shower.”

“But–“

“I’ll tell ya what, Pete. I’m goin’a give ya time ta come clean yerself ‘fore I tell Cap’n. A full day cycle should do it.” It’s the least he can do.

Peter looks scandalized. “You’re going to snitch on me, Kraglin? But this is on you, too. You were supposed to be watching out for me!” He points out desperately.

“Hey, Cap’n an’ me, we’re a team. He trusts me ‘cause I’m always straight with ‘im. ‘Sides, yer an adult now. That means yer responsible fer yer own mistakes, an’ I shouldn’t have’ta watch chu close-like no more.” At least Kraglin hopes that that’s how Yondu will view this situation, but perhaps he should prepare to spend the next several weeks in the brig or on scrubs in addition to having his cut of any profits in the near future reduced out of spite. If he’s lucky, Cap’n will deem him too untrustworthy to ever be in charge of Pete’s welfare again. At least then there will be a silver lining to this fiasco.

Peter sucks in an audible breath before resigning himself to his inevitable fate. “Fine! But being an adult sucks!”

 

* * *

 

Kraglin watches as Pete fails to apprise Yondu of the situation all day. The boy tries, but every time, he struggles to find the words, instead transitioning to some inane observation about anything other than his confession. Yondu had smacked him around a bit for wasting his valuable time, but still, Pete never manages to tell him.

Really, it’s for his own good that he comes out with it up front, instead of Yondu discovering it later from another source. Kraglin knows this, and yet, every time he sees Peter about to tell him, his own blood pressure spikes. Exactly how much responsibility would Yondu assign Kraglin? Despite what he had said to Peter, Yondu had certain expectations of Kraglin, had even paid him to watch the brat. That deal may come back to bite him yet.

It stretches on for the rest of the day until nightfall, that anxious little niggle that whispers to Kraglin that he may not come away from this unscathed, when he enters Cap’n’s quarters later.

“How did it go yesterday? Quill git it all out’a his system?” Yondu asks from his seat on the bed after the door slides shut behind Kraglin, trapping him with his deadly paramour.

For Cap’n to have asked such a thing when Kraglin had barely crossed his threshold… the subject had obviously been chewing at the corners of his mind.

_Dammit._

Kraglin swallows his bundle of nerves. “Yeah… I think he’s good fer a while at least. Had a hangover the size of Thanos’s ballsack, but he’ll live.”

Yondu grunts, then: “Ya did good, Kraglin.”

Kraglin nods, feeling uneasy with the unearned praise. While Yondu’s compliments on his competence are few and far between, he knows he doesn’t deserve it this time. Still, he had promised Pete more time, and there was no reason to ruin his last night with Yondu before his inevitable punishment, so Kraglin keeps mum as he unzips and peels the worn leather jumpsuit off his torso, shrugging off his sleeves and pulling up his woven undershirt.

“What’s that ya got there?” Yondu inquires, his expression flat and voice carefully neutral as he stares at Kraglin’s nude torso.

Kraglin follows Yondu’s gaze to his side under his arm, finding the matching twin of Pete’s new tattoo tickling his ribs in all its bright blue glory, its coy visage taunting him with sly upturned mouth and a healthy dose of irony.

There’s only one option: Play dumb.

“What… What does it look like, sir?” Kraglin’s mouth is dry with trepidation.

After an interminably-long moment, the corner of Yondu’s mouth quirks up. “Looks like ya got yerself a new tattoo of a handsome feller.”

“…Right. That’s ‘xactly what this is.”

“An’ here I thought chu forgot our anniversary,” Yondu states, oblivious to Kraglin’s heightened terror. “Thirteen years it’s been since I pulled ya off the streets o’ Xandar. Feral li’l thing with a sticker o’ a knife and big blue eyes too big fer yer face.”

“Ya liked my eyes.”

“I liked yer knife a lot less, but chu had gumption.” Yondu tugs him closer, his hand rests warm on the small of Kraglin’s back. “ Ya know, you always were a sentimental fucker, but I’ll overlook it this time.”

“Well, I ain’t the only one that remembered,” he lies.

“Shaddup,” Yondu orders in a gruff voice bordering on fondness, pulling the man down to silence him using his preferred method.

Kraglin complies, melting into the soft rhythmic joining of their bodies. It’s different than their usual pace. Slower this time, less forceful, less greedy.

Afterwards, Yondu lies on his back, face turned towards Kraglin, smirking as he pokes the twin smile of his own likeness curved against Kraglin’s ribs. He rolls on his side, throwing an arm across the other man’s chest and entwining one leg with Kraglin’s own, as he slips into a deep sleep.

Kraglin lies awake, unable to do the same.

Yondu had been different tonight. It didn’t happen often, but it catches Kraglin off-guard every time his Cap’n’s libido veers towards a leisurely, almost-tender fucking. Kraglin likes to give it hard, as he chases the frustrations of the day away with the frantic snap of his pelvis against Yondu’s backside, but occasionally, he prefers it soft in ways Yondu rarely indulged. It usually does things to Kraglin, warms his belly better than a pint of rotgut, but this time, he feels dirtier, more shameful, than the first time he had role-played a Kree master sexually degrading his slave at Yondu’s request. That had been consensual at least, but this? This felt downright deceitful. If Yondu ever found out–

_Pete._

Kraglin must find and stop him from revealing his identical tattoo to Yondu, or else Cap’n is liable to skin the offending image from Kraglin’s ribcage before stranding him on the closest backwater planet.

Kraglin tries to gently extract himself from under Yondu’s limbs, but the man only snuggles in closer with Kraglin’s every attempt to wriggle away, effectively pinning him to the bed. Giving up, he resolves to slip out as soon as Yondu shifts off his body.

He’ll stay up all night if he has to.

 

* * *

 

When Yondu wakes the next morning, Kraglin is still nestled in a tangle of blankets, loudly snoring away. He considers jostling his first mate awake, but then again, it _is_ their anniversary… Perhaps he’ll let the man sleep in, just this once.

Heading out of his quarters, an uncharacteristic spring in his step, he runs into Quill holding a cup of coffee for his mentor.

“Hey Yondu… I’m glad I ran into you like this. You want some coffee?” His downturned eyes watch the tremble of the liquid surface as his fingers fidget across the hot metal side of the mug.

“Ya ran inta me… outside my quarters,” Yondu repeats, swiping the drink to take a sip. Two sugars. Just how he likes it.

“Yeah, well… I just wanted to thank you… for believing me about reaching my age of majority and letting me go out the other night. As an adult, I can make my own decisions, and I hope you also recognize my autonomy to decide what I can do with my own body, so…”

Yondu looks at his boy, taking in his nervous shuffle and the way he’s not exactly meeting Yondu’s eye, and deduces the reason for his seemingly-pointless speech. “Uh huh. She got a name, son?”

“…What?” Peter asks, perplexed.

Yondu looks down the corridor, finding it empty, perfect for dispensing quality fatherly advice. “Rule number 1 o’ bein’ an adult, son, don’t fall in love with the first person ya fuck, ‘specially if she’s a professional. She may’ve told ya you was cute an’ all, or you was the best she ever had, but it’s her job ta make ya feel good, so don’t think it means somethin’ special,” he says, not unkindly.

“That’s not–”

“Yer about to say it weren’t like that, but it was, an’ the sooner you git that through yer thick skull, the better off you’ll be,” Yondu cuts him off.

Quill sighs, palming his face with one hand. Yondu figures it’s most likely out of disappointment.

Feeling unusually magnanimous, he pats him on the back, leaving his arm draped across the boy's shoulders. “Look Quill. Yer a grown man now, an’ I’ve been tallyin’ up yer accounts, an’ it looks like you have enough to pay me off fer her.”

“Pay you off for who?” He asks, dreading yet another bill Yondu will tack on to his name, to add to the list of things he owes the cheap bastard, thereby justifying his eternal involuntary servitude. Wait… Yondu hadn’t paid for his birthday visit to the brothel two nights prior, had he?

“The M-ship. Yer ‘Milano’ o’ course,” Yondu clarifies, showing off quite a bit of gold through his wide grin. “Stupid name fer a ship, but yer paid up, I reckon. She’s yer’s if ya want her.”

Peter is dumbfounded. “…Really?”

“Yeah, but yer still on my payroll,” Yondu insists, tightening his hold across the back of Quill’s neck, forcing him to stoop low so he stands shorter than his captain. It wouldn’t do to have the kid run off to start a life with some cheap tart he just met. “I stopped my boys from eatin’ you all ‘em years ago. Yer alive ‘cause o’ me, so you still owe me. Don’t chu forgit it.”

He lets him go.

“How could I when you’re always reminding me every five minutes?” Quill grumbles, running his fingers through his hair as he straightens up.

Yondu thins his eyes at the boy before cuffing him lightly on the back of the head.

“No backtalk.”

 

* * *

 

Peter sits in the pilot chair of the Milano, sliding his hand along the control console in reverent awe and disbelief. He had never thought this day would come.

It was a hard fact Yondu had always made sure Peter had what he needed: the blasters, space mask, and leathers that made him a productive member of his Ravager crew. However, as Yondu had repeatedly informed him throughout the years, all of it was on loan or had to be purchased over time by garnishing his cut of the profits. In fact, save the few possessions he had when he was abducted, Peter owned very little outright. The Milano had been a pipe-dream, something Yondu had held over his head as a tantalizing possibility yet to be realized. If only Peter worked harder, earned more, he could one day purchase her from him, or so Yondu had said. If he was being honest with himself, Peter often wondered if the stingy Captain ever meant to relinquish ownership.

And now, finally, after all this time, she’s his. All his.

Throwing open the side hatch, a harried Kraglin stumbles in. His short Mohawk is in disarray, flattened on the side with the ends sticking up and down in all the wrong directions.

“You talk to Cap’n yet?” He asks, without so much as a greeting.

Fear grips Pete’s insides. “No, I–”

Kraglin’s brows knit in the middle as he struggles with his next words. “Pete, ‘bout what I said yesterday–”

 _This is it. He’s going to tell Yondu,_ Peter thinks, panic welling up in his throat.

“Wait, before you say anything, I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t tell Yondu. I know you gave me a day cycle out of courtesy, but we _can’t_ tell him,” Peter pleads. “Please, Kraglin, I’m begging here.”

He just got the Milano and with it, permanent flying privileges and freedom. He doesn’t want to risk Yondu rescinding his offer so soon.

Kraglin is struck dumb for a moment, giving Peter hope that for the first time in his life, Kraglin will be cool.

“What’s in it fer me?”

“Fifty credits.”

“Yer askin’ me to betray the con-fi-dance of our Cap’n, a man I respect a great deal, fer fifty credits?” Kraglin asks, insulted at the piddling offer. “150 credits,” he counters. 

Peter checks his discretionary account, the one Yondu set up for him for pocket money. “I only got… 85 to my name. C’mon Kraglin! You got to do me a solid. Just this once.”

Kraglin sighs dramatically, holding out his hand to complete the credit transfer, “All right, Pete, but chu owe me one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kraglin is such an asshole in this, and no, I’m not apologizing for him. He’s a grown man, who can apologize for his own actions. But he won’t. Because he’s an asshole.


	4. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter and Kraglin evade detection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kymellians are an alien race of horse people in the Marvel Universe.

Kraglin figures the entire charade is easy money. All Pete has to do to maintain their ruse is keep his cold-weather shirt on at all times and abstain from showering for two months until their next shore leave. Really, it’s a cakewalk for the average Ravager.

Peter is not the average Ravager.

“C’mon Kraglin… just keep a lookout. I’ll be in and out in like three minutes, five tops,” he begs a mere three weeks later during the graveyard shift.

It’s the fourth time they’ve had this argument, and Kraglin’s patience wears paper-thin. “You want Cap’n to find out ‘bout yer _li’l friend_?”

“He won’t! Look, the officer’s shower block is empty. Everyone with access is asleep or busy keeping the Eclector on our flight-path,” he reasons, peering longingly into the darkened room where he can practically hear the silent showerhead sing its siren song promising sudsy cleanliness. “I’ve accumulated so much oil and grime, it’s practically a second skin. Any longer, and my shirt will _literally_ be transparent with grease, and then Yondu will see it anyway.”

“That’s an exaggeration. Leather don’t git transparent.”

Peter pulls at his shirt, “This right here is woven fabric, not leather, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I smell terrible, and this…” Peter runs his fingers through his slickened locks. “This is NOT hair gel. I _need_ a shower, Kraglin. Not want. _Need._ ”

“Or you can shave yer head closer to yer scalp an’ wear more durable clothing like the rest o’ us,” Kraglin argues back, retreading the same arguments as before. “Who you tryin’ ta impress anyhow with yer o’er-zealous groomin’? You know we’re all men here, right? Just ‘cause Half-Nut’s slim with long hair don’t make him a woman.”

“I shower for me. I _like_ looking and smelling good, unlike some people. Present company included.”

Kraglin crosses his arms. “Drop it, Pete. It ain’t worth it.”

Peter slips into the shower block anyway, pulling off his clothing as he makes his way towards the faucets, and stage whispers over his shoulder, “I’m going in, and if you don’t want your lie to come out as well, you’ll cover for me.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Kraglin grumbles angrily, but he stands outside just the same. The brat has three minutes before he cuts the main water line.

Kraglin hears familiar footsteps seconds before he sees Yondu step around a corner not too long after. Kraglin hopes the man is just making his rounds, but he slows to a stop before passing him. Perhaps he wants to make small talk?

No such luck.

“Out’a the way, Kraglin. My personal shower’s actin’ up,” Cap’n says, as he attempts to physically remove his person from the entrance.

Kraglin continues to block his path, shifting slightly to the side to stand directly in front of the access panel. “Hey, Cap’n! Fancy seein’ you here,” he replies, much louder than is necessary, hoping Peter can hear him through the closed door.

“On my own ship?” Yondu deadpans, as he sweeps an arm under Kraglin’s own to press palm against access panel. It slides open.

Kraglin takes advantage of their proximity to tilt forward, seductively wrapping his arms across Yondu’s shoulders, encapsulating the man in a tight embrace before spinning him around so his back faces the showers.

“How about it, sir? You. Me. Shower nookie?” He murmurs hushed and hot into his lover’s ear as he peers over his shoulder to scope out Pete’s position.

Fortunately, the boy had the sense to cut the water and gather his clothing to hide behind a central freestanding shower cylinder in the middle of the room. Unfortunately, Yondu and Kraglin are blocking the only exit.

“We could git caught,” Yondu rumbles low, but Kraglin can hear it in the other man’s voice, that subtle warmth betraying interest. He just needs a little nudge in the right direction.

Kraglin slowly waltzes forward, leading him further inside and back, towards the showers. “Makes it all the more excitin’,” he says, captivating Yondu’s attention so he doesn’t turn around as Peter tracks their trajectory, carefully moving around the cylinder opposite their position, edging ever closer to the door. Kraglin pushes Yondu against the tiled wall, parting his thighs with his own leg. “C’mon sir, ya know ya want to,” he whispers before nibbling his lobe and unbuckling the belts crisscrossing his torso.

Yondu hums as he unzips Kraglin’s jumpsuit, his hands splaying across hairy chest moving outward, disrobing the man to the waist. Having finished with his captain’s accoutrements, Kraglin discards them off to the side as Yondu pulls his shirt up and over his head.

The only problem, Kraglin realizes, is that with himself facing the tiles, Yondu now has a clear, unobstructed view of the door, effectively preventing Pete from sneaking out the exit, which had slid shut behind them, trapping all three in a nightmare scenario none of them desire.

He can’t let that happen.

Reaching across to take Yondu’s right forearm in his right hand, he pulls, spinning the man around and planting Yondu’s hand firmly against the wall as he roughly pushes his pelvis against his ass.

“Ain’t we eager,” Yondu says, attempting to turn his head to face his aggressive first mate.

“Don’t look at me,” Kraglin orders sternly, as he places his left hand flat against Cap’n’s head so his cheek rests against the tile, stopping him from turning fully. His right hand leaves Yondu's own to dip down and cup his genitals through leather pants, feeling Yondu's erection bulging through the material. Carefully, he unzips and pushes down the man’s pants, taking his underwear along with it to just barely undress his ass.

“You remember the safe word?” Kraglin whispers, his finger tracing the curve of the other man’s rear where it dips inward.

Yondu nods.

“Good,” Kraglin says, as that finger pushes in. Yondu shudders and moans low as Kraglin looks over his shoulder to find Pete still peaking around the cylinder, frozen and horrified. Kraglin tilts his head towards door, trying to indicate the boy should really go _right now._

Startled from his stupor, Peter holds his hands up with the backs facing Kraglin, tapping the blade of his flattened palms together before touching one ear.

 _Ah, he’s afraid Cap’n will hear the door open,_ Kraglin interprets.

He looks back towards the man bent before him then reaches for the next faucet over, turning it on.

“What’s that fer?”

“Quiet,” Kraglin says, slapping Yondu’s ass to reinforce his sharp command. “Or do you want the crew to hear how much of a cock slut their Cap’n is? Perhaps I should let ‘em know. Make ya sit on my dick in yer Cap’n’s chair in the middle o’ the Bridge where they can all see. Maybe pass ya around so they all git a piece. Would chu like that?”

Yondu shakes his head no, gasping when Kraglin adds another finger alongside the first.

“Then do as I say, an’ this’ll stay between us.”

He turns back to lock eyes with Peter, tipping his head more forcefully towards the door and mouthing _GO!_

Peter looks conflicted, angry and disgusted.

Well, tough shit. If Pete didn’t like the fact that Kraglin was giving it to their captain on the regular, then that was his problem.

 _GO!_ Kraglin mouths again, ever more exaggerated. Peter hesitates but complies this time, quietly shuffling towards the door to leave, the roar of the showerhead covering up his exit.

 

* * *

 

When Kraglin meets up with Peter an hour later in his quarters, he is freshly showered, courtesy of Yondu, and the customary stench that usually clings to his presence is greatly diminished. Pete should be happy about that.

Pete is not happy.

The minute the door closes behind him, Peter greets him with a strong right hook across his face that almost dazes the other man. He’s ready with a block when the boy tries again with his left, catching his arm before it connects, and using his momentum to slam his body against the wall as he sidesteps him. Peter quickly spins around and launches himself at Kraglin, tumbling both to the floor as they grapple for the upper hand.

“What the fuck, Pete!” Kraglin shouts, narrowly avoiding another of Peter’s wildly-mistimed strikes.

“What do you have on him?” Peter screams, angry tears welling up in his eyes. He likely can’t even see straight. “How long have you been forcing him to do _that_?”

Kraglin takes advantage of the boy’s emotional state to slip out from under his imperfect hold, pinning him face down. “Ain’t nobody force Cap’n to do shit he don’t want.”

Peter struggles under his grip as Kraglin attempts to hold him steady with mounting difficulty. The kid had been growing larger as of late, bulking up to a more-formidable size, much to his opponent’s consternation.

“I know what I saw!”

“You don’t know shit ‘bout what you saw!”

“Extortion? Blackmail?” Peter bites back. “Rape?”

Kraglin’s grip on his shoulder tightens to bruising. “What the fuck! NO.”

“You were threatening him, and I… I just left,” Peter cries, all fight leaving his body, replaced by overwhelming shame. “I let you do that to him because I’m a fucking coward.”

Kraglin reduces the pressure fractionally. “Role-playin’, Pete. We was role-playin’,” he says. “Look… bein’ Cap’n? It’s hard. So much ‘sponsibility, so many decisions… Sometimes, he just needs someone else to take the reins an’ tell him what to do fer a spell. He can make it stop at a word, if things go too far, if I go too far. He says the word, an’ I stop.”

“Why do you do it?”

“’Cause he needs it.” Kraglin slips off Peter’s flattened body to stand over him. “An’ ‘cause I want to.”

Peter stands as well, dusting off his leathers, careful not to look at the other man. “But… but you can’t be together. You both have had other partners, quite recently too. Hell, I saw you usher a couple ladies on-ship three months back. You’re telling me you _didn’t_ fuck them?”

“Not that I should hafta explain shit to you, Pete, but sometimes sex is two people who are mighty fond o’ each other lettin’ off some steam, an’ other times it’s those same two people plus two intersex hookers one of ‘em pays to spit-roast the other while he watches,” Kraglin says blandly. He shrugs. “It’s really not that complicated.”

“Gross.” Peter’s expression twists with disgust before morphing into thoughtfulness. “So… sometimes you have sex with other people, and it’s not a big deal?”

Kraglin recalls the screams of Yondu’s last unauthorized sexual partner, violet blood splattered across walls and hands, marring his pale skin gone white across the knuckles, back when he had been young, reckless, stupid… then a flash of sharp pain followed by his own dark blue blood temporarily blinding his left eye. Cap’n’s resultant rage had left its ugly mark upon his brow but inexplicably hadn’t spelt his end.

“…Yes.”

“Oh thank the stars!” Peter exhales in blessed relief. “At least it’s not like you’re married, then.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean… there’s no commitment. It’s not like you guys love each other or anything. It’s… it’s just sex.” Peter explains, his voice faltering when he notices the other man’s poker-face momentarily flicker with irritation. “…Right?”

Kraglin is through entertaining questions. “Ain’t none o’ yer business.”

 

* * *

 

Peter can’t stop thinking about it: Yondu in the showers, bent over, mewling and submissive to his subordinate’s commands. It was more than simply seeing another side to the mean old bastard. He had witnessed something horrible, something transgressive, something… _intimate_ … And he didn’t know how to act around him anymore. As it stood, he could barely look at either of them really.

“All right, Quill. Out with it,” Yondu orders him five days later.

“Out with what?” Peter asks while staring at the miniature arrows gleaming on the leather strap hooked over Yondu’s right shoulder.

“You’ve been quiet fer damn near a week. Can’t even look me in the eye most days,” he points out, as Peter looks up but struggles to maintain eye contact in an effort to prove him wrong. “What did chu do? Ya know it’s only goin’a go worse fer ya if I find out second-hand, son.”

Peter’s eyes dart to the space just over the other man’s head. “I didn’t do anything, Yondu. Nothing at all.”

“Uh huh… You want’a try sayin’ that to my face? Might be a tad more convincin’ if you could manage that much.”

Peter stares directly into his eyes, “I didn’t do nothing.”

“Naw. Still not convincin’.” Yondu grabs him by the back of the neck, pulling him in close enough for Pete to smell his rancid breath. “What. Did. Chu. Do?”

Peter’s temper flares up. How dare Yondu demand Peter’s secrets when he himself had been keeping a rather large one for years? Not that he really needed to know everything that happened in captain’s quarters, but as a grown man, didn’t Peter deserve the same measure of autonomy and privacy? He’s about to tell Yondu as much when Kraglin interrupts.

“Um… Cap’n. If you ain’t too busy, I got some personal business to go over with ya.”

“Maybe later,” Yondu replies, eyes still narrowed on his ward.

“It’s real overdue,” Kraglin insists, refusing to back off.

Yondu stands frozen for a good five seconds before the hand on Peter’s neck twitches and releases. “We ain’t done, boy.”

Peter sucks in a breath but before he can say anything–

“Why don’t chu take a walk, Pete,” Kraglin says, patting the boy on the shoulder while moving in to stand between the two. “Go on. Git.”

Peter obliges. Jutting out his chin at Cap’n in resolute defiance, he turns tail and stalks off.

“The boy’s up to somethin’, Kraglin. I just know it,” Yondu says when Peter moves out of earshot.

“Mayhap, but we got a li’l business to conclude,” Kraglin replies, passing him a docket detailing a list of expenses, none of which appear to be related to the everyday operations of the Eclector.

“The fuck is this?” Yondu asks, peering down the list towards the bottom where Kraglin had tallied an exorbitant total.

“My receipts fer takin’ Pete out. We’ve had so much goin’ on, I barely had time to compile ‘em ‘til now. Here they are. All present an’ accounted for,” Kraglin says simply, casually stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Yondu scowls at the rather extraordinary figure. He could have gone on an three-day bender for a fraction of the price. A particularly expensive item catches his eye. “Ain’t the Silk Tassel that swanky brothel clear ‘cross town near the Golden Pearl? Why the fuck ya take ‘im there?”

“Ya said ta take ‘im out. Make sure he got all that adult shit out’a his system,” Kraglin says matter-of-factly. “He wanted to have sex.”

“No, I get that, but what’s wrong with the Quiver an’ Shiver. Fer the money, ya can’t beat their Kymellian show. That right there is worth the cover.” Sure, that establishment was a bit dodgy and Quill would have needed an entire arsenal of vaccinations after one of their Birthday Specials, but no one could beat the price for a night of debauchery, even after Yondu factored in the necessary medical interventions the following day.

Kraglin closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger in the manner of a long-suffering personal assistant. “You know Pete. The boy don’t got the stomach fer that shit. He’d prob’ly go green in the middle o’ the performance, an’ then we’d be laughed right out’a there. You know the Quiver an’ Shiver’s my favorite haunt, an’ I’d like ta be able ta go back some day… Or worse yet, Pete would git a complex ‘bout the size o’ his dick, an’ then there’d be questions.” He raises his voice in a poor imitation of Peter as a prepubescent child, “Am I enough? Will I ever please a woman? How big is yer dick, Kraglin?” Dropping his voice back to its normal register, he continues, “You didn’t pay me near ‘nough to explain galactic genital variation to the kid.”

“You coddle the kid, Kraglin,” Yondu complains, his mouth forming a thin hard line.

“ _I_ coddle the kid, sir?” Kraglin repeats in disbelief. “Ya know what? If ya don’t like my methods, yer free to take him out yerself in the future, but first…” he taps the docket. “Pay me. We agreed expenses included. A deal’s a deal.”

As much as he would like to, he can’t argue with that logic. Yondu grumbles as he digs in his inner coat pocket for his personal credit stick. Somehow, some way, this was all Quill’s fault.

_That ungrateful little prick._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote the final two chapters together, so the next chapter is like 80% complete with 2400 words already written. It should be up in a few days.


	5. What Would James Bond Do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter asks himself the important questions and as a result, goes rogue. Kraglin resists the urge to strangle him.

_Desperation is the father of invention,_ Peter thinks, as he squeezes excess water from a sponge before wiping it under his armpit in front of the sink in Kraglin’s personal bogs. He would have preferred a real shower, but after that last fiasco in the officer’s showerblock, he isn’t taking any chances.

“You almost done in there, Pete?” Kraglin calls from the other side of the door.

“Give me a minute!”

“You’ve already had fifteen!”

“So, what’s one more?”

Sharing a bathroom with the ornery first mate was less-than-ideal, but what choice did they have? Peter required some way to clean himself at least once a week, and this method had the benefit of being private. It still didn’t stop Kraglin from complaining.

“Do you have to do that every week?” He grumbles as soon as Peter slides open the door. “It feels like yer in here all the time now.”

“I would like to shower, but that’s not an option right now, is it?” comes the snippy reply.

“Well, good thing we’re making port next week. Finally, this nightmare is almost o’er.”

“I enjoyed spending quality time with you as well, asshole,” Peter says, stepping past Kraglin to exit his quarters.

“Yer welcome, you li’l shit.”

Unfortunately, there’s a complication, a slight hiccup in their plans for immediate tattoo removal.

“Quill, I got a lead on a job that’s on the way to Knowhere,” Yondu approaches him shortly after. “I need chu ta break into Nova records on the Nuir Satellite an’ find the location of some valuable artifacts Nova hid away somewhere. It’s an unmanned outpost. Shouldn’t have too much in the way of security,”

It’s routine reconnaissance, something he has done a hundred times alongside other more-experienced Ravagers.

“All right. Who am I going with?”

“No one,” Yondu clarifies. “This is yer first solo mission on account’a you bein’ a man now. I think you should be able to handle it.”

That piques the boy’s interest. “Really? You think I’m ready for a solo assignment?”

“I wouldn’t have put chu on it if I wasn’t,” Yondu replies, hooking an arm around Pete’s shoulder to pull him in close. “Just don’t fuck up, ya hear.”

 

* * *

 

Yondu’s information hadn’t been strictly accurate, a fact Peter learns shortly after tripping an alarm on the small satellite.

“I said Freeze!” The A’askavariian guard screeches, having tackled the boy to the ground and attempting to wrap him in his many tentacles in order to arrest him. “Desist your struggling!”

Peter punches the guard in his amphibious face right over the nostril slits as hard as he can manage, his fist coming away slimy. With a cry, the guard’s grip loosens just enough for Peter to wriggle free, tearing his shirt on the dorsal ridges of the guard’s arms, the sharp edges just barely grazing his skin.

“This is my favorite shirt!” Peter exclaims as he scoots backwards, pulling a net trap from his coat and activating the device before sliding it under the guard to pin him down while he makes his escape.

Peter knows it won’t hold the man for long.

He barrels down the hall towards the Milano, where he quickly initiates the flight sequence back to the Eclector. Once in the safety of space, he checks his pocket for the data repository he had stolen. At the very least, Yondu should be pleased his first solo mission had ended in success.

Peter is severely disappointed.

Waiting for him at the M-ship docks is his old mentor, who promptly greets him with a customary criticism.

“Took you long enough, Quill,” Yondu says, once aboard the Milano to collect his prize.

“Yeah, well, your info was shit. You said unmanned. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone, much less any security.” Peter hands him the data stick. “It was just the one guard, so I took care of it, but still.”

Would it have killed the old bastard to have told him he did a good job?

“That what happened to your clothes?” Yondu eyes the rip, as he places a hand on Peter’s shoulder to angle him around for a better look. “Did he nick ya? Let me see,” he says, trying to pull up Peter’s torn shirt to check for bodily damage.

_The tattoo!_

“Stop that!” Peter panics, batting Yondu’s hands off and curling his arms inward to conceal his torso from view. “Don’t touch me!”

Yondu releases him immediately. Peter scrambles away, holding together the shreds of his shirt and tattered dignity, relieved he had escaped detection once again.

“I know what’s goin’ on, son,” Yondu says, an unreadable look in his eye.

“Nothing is going on. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

Yondu ignores Peter’s denials. “It ain’t hard to figure out what with how you’ve been sneakin’ around like ya got somethin’ to hide, the way ya can’t bear to even look me in the eye… Hell, even yer shower schedule’s off,” Yondu catalogs his suspicious behavior, his mouth downturned into a sneer while advancing on the boy. Peter takes a step back, fear liquefying his knees to the consistency of jello. This was it. This was the moment Yondu finally murdered him. He had a good run. Ten years as a Ravager. Not bad all things considered.

Yondu leans in, squinting up at the boy’s nose. “It’s normal, you know.”

“What’s normal?” Peter asks, his voice an unflattering squeak.

“Body changes,” Yondu clarifies, “Ya git a li’l smellier, a touch oilier, an’ then yer milk ducts get all pronounced to prepare fer the young. I’ve got mine in m’ pouch, but you Terrans… it’s external, ain’t it? Right ‘cross yer chest. I just want to let chu know… it’s normal fer yer kind. Prob’ly. Ain’t got no other Terrans to compare to, but I’m sure yer fine. Yer just becomin’ a man is all. Ain’t no reason to git embarrassed.”

“…Right,” Peter replies, subtly slumping over in relief. “It’s just another part of growing up that sucks major dick, like everything else about this process.”

“Well, growin’ up ain’t so bad.”

“It is,” Peter insists. “There’s just so much more responsibility and stress… I just don’t know why I was in such a hurry to become an adult if _this_ is what was waiting on the other side, you know?”

“Least you came out the other side,” Yondu mutters darkly.

“Yeah, like that's such an accomplishment.”

“Yer lucky you lasted as long as ya did,” Yondu says louder, inexplicably angry. “Why… Back when, you was on the menu. You know my boys ain’t never tasted Terran before. I stopped ‘em from takin’ a bite out’a you. You should be grateful instead of a whiny li’l shit. Growin’ up’s tough? Well, try dyin’ young an’ then maybe you’d ‘ppreciate what chu got, what I gave you.”

“Three squares and a beating every other day?” Peter quips, before he can think better of his words.

“I saved yer life!”

“You kidnapped me!”

“I saw you, an’ I took you. It’s what we Ravagers do.” His tone is stern, brooking no argument.

“What do you mean, ‘we’?”

Yondu’s laugh is mirthless, cruel, as if he’s privy to a very good joke at Peter’s expense. “Wake up, son! Ya ain’t Terran no more. Haven’t been fer years. Yer a Ravager now, too, Quill. An’ I promise you: ya try to go back to yer Terra, an’ you’ll be as much an alien as me.”

Peter shakes with futile rage, his face red and eyes glassy. “Fuck you, Yondu,” he says, clenching his fist as he backs away from the encounter and leaves the Milano, making his way towards his room to patch his threadbare shirt. He needs something to keep his hands busy, something less satisfactory, less suicidal than punching the old man straight in the gob.

When Kraglin comes upon him later, he’s calmed down, his temper diminishing with every loop and stick of the needle, but despair lies heavy in its wake.

“Okay, Pete. Cap’n’s goin’a rendezvous with the client on Knowhere to deliver the cargo. He’ll be gone fer a while, so we’ve got a couple shifts to pull this off. I happen to have an ol’ buddy o’ mine that knows a guy that knows another guy who can git yer tattoo lasered off fer cheap. Will only cost yer cut of the take,” Kraglin rattles off from his holopad before looking up at the despondent youth. “Still upset ‘bout yer shirt? I know it was yer favorite an’ all, but if ya let me negotiate the price, there might be some left over after the tattoo removal to buy ya a new one.”

“My shirt… yeah… It’s okay. It’s not like I need to impress anyone on the Eclector or anything.” Peter’s voice as well as his demeanor is diminished, as small and compact as his hunched-over frame.

“All right… what’s gotten into ya? The Pete I know pulls out all the stops fer his own personal vanity.”

“It’s nothing, Kraglin. It’s just… I’m never getting out of here. I’m never going home.”

Kraglin rolls his eyes, scratching the short hairs of his temple. “Don’t be ridiculous. The Eclector’s yer home.”

Peter sighs, thoroughly unconvinced. He pulls the patched shirt over his head, not even bothering to straighten his hair when he emerges from the neck.

Kraglin crosses his arms. “Look, Petey. Home ain’t where yer from. It ain’t where yer people climbed up out of their birthin’ pods or whatever Terrans use fer reproduction. Everyone who gives two shits ‘bout you is here. Cap’n, Tullk, Oblo… Hell, even Vorker’s a touch fond o’ ya, an’ that’s what makes a home.”

“Yondu doesn’t care about me any more than my earning potential.”

Kraglin stifles a laugh. “If you believe that, then I got’a high-rise on Xandar I’m lookin’ to sell. Will only cost ya yer next seven payouts an’ yer pride,” he jokes. “C’mon Pete, it’s my job to know what Cap’n’s feelin’, and trust me when I tell ya he cares more fer the lot of us than he ought.”

He looks away as Peter rubs the not-tears from his eyes and sits up taller before fixing his hair, running his fingers through the locks to keep it out of his eyes. When Kraglin is sure the kid is presentable, he turns back to address him once again. “Now, I need chu to focus on not gittin’ caught. You think you can do that, kid?”

Peter nods.

 

* * *

 

Kraglin’s friend of a friend of a friend turns out to be some junky named Spitz with a stolen laser-removal machine and approximately thirty minutes of training and and a week’s worth of experience. Peter is hesitant. Spitz is jittery, with bloodshot eyes and a slight tremor to his wispy arms marked with rashes and dry patches throughout. But the procedure is simple enough, Kraglin reassures him. A trained orloni could operate it. Plus, the man’s price is right, so Peter figures he might as well proceed with the removal.

He should have known better.

“What the hell?” Peter asks thirty minutes later once the machine has powered down. Strapped to the table, all he can do is lift his head up to look down obliquely at his chest. “The tattoo is still there, but now it’s all blurry.”

“Yeah, what the fuck is that about?” Kraglin adds, mirroring Pete’s complaints. Rubbing one hand over his mohawk, he walks off towards opposite corner to cool down before he clocked the incompetent technician. They really did have the worst luck.

“Must’a used the wrong wavelength,” Spitz says, mostly to himself as he tinkers with the machine, his protruding yellowed teeth worrying his lower lip. “I usually only remove prison tattoos, you know, just black an’ grey ones like the ones on yer friend’s neck over there.” He taps Peter’s collarbone where the blurred tattoo still remains. “This one’s full-color, bright blue… a real quality tattoo. You don’t git ‘em that vibrant in the clink.”

Peter is unimpressed with the man’s excuses. “I don’t care. I just want it off. Cut it off if you have to!”

“Customer’s always right,” Spitz says. Brandishing a skinning knife, he’s halfway through flaying the tattoo off Peter’s body as the boy screams before Kraglin rushes over to disarm the man, knocking him out for good measure. Kraglin unbuckles a sheet-white Peter, helping him stand on wobbly feet.

“What the fuck! I didn’t mean that literally,” Peter cries, wincing as he pokes the wide bleeding gash, trying to hold the flayed layers of skin down over the wound.

“Shhh… shhhh…” Kraglin tries to soothe him, holding him up with an arm snaked under Pete’s own. He kicks Spitz out of spite before leading the boy out into the street. “It’s alright, Petey. We’ll git chu to a doc, an’ they’ll stitch chu up good.”

“A real doctor?” Peter inquires weakly, as he tries to staunch the blood with his wadded-up shirt. It bleeds through almost immediately.

“Yeah sure… a real doctor. Someone who went to school an’ all that fancy shit.”

True to his word, Kraglin finds Peter someone who went to medical school. Unfortunately, that person was still in training and had yet to graduate. She does a good enough job of it, even if her stitching is uneven, and gives them an entire course of Xandarian-compatible antibiotics from her stash of pharmaceutical samples.

“What am I going to do?” Peter asks later, as they leave the underground clinic. He pulls down the neck of his stiffened bloodsoaked shirt and points to the wound, its edges slightly puffed and poorly stitched together, but at least the tattoo no longer graced his skin. “This right here? It’s going to scar. Permanently. Yondu will want to know what happened. What am I going to tell him?”

Kraglin shrugs. “If Cap’n asks ‘bout it, keep it simple. Bar fight. Tripped an’ fell on a sharp edge o’ the nav console. Dropped a knife on yer chest when you were practicin’ jugglin’ ‘em like an idjit. That sort’a thing.”

Now that Pete was out of the proverbial woods, he appears to have switched to his default setting: uncaring asshole.

“Why am I such a klutz in all your scenarios?” Peter complains, clearly exasperated by Kraglin’s lack of faith in his competence. “Why couldn’t I have gotten hurt doing something cool, like James Bond.”

_James who?_

“Trust me on this, Pete. The less detail given, the less potential witnesses, then the less complicated the lie, an’ the easier it is to keep straight,” Kraglin says reasonably. “Plus, ya want it to be believable, right? Ya got’a work with what ya got. Yer a reckless kid who’s always doin’ stupid shit. That’s who ya are. Use it to yer advantage. Embrace yer many, glaringly-obvious shortcomings.”

“ _My_ ‘glaringly-obvious shortcomings’? We wouldn’t even be in this mess if you hadn’t referred me to the galaxy’s worst tattoo removal technician!”

“He was the only guy in your price range,” Kraglin points out.

“Only because I paid you hush money, and then you still had to pay extra to get me medical care…” He thins his eyes at the older man in suspicion. “Speaking of which, why did you do that? You never pay out unless you have something to gain,” he adds.

“…’Cause I didn’t feel like explainin’ to Cap’n how you died o’ a preventable infection on my watch,” Kraglin replies evenly, conveniently disregarding his own feelings in the direct aftermath of Peter’s injury. Lying had always been as natural as breathing to the man. It’s what has kept him alive all these years. If Peter was to survive their trade, he would do well to learn the same skill. “I like the jugglin’ cover story. Let’s go with that. Seems like somethin’ you would do.”

 

* * *

 

Yondu notices his injury the following afternoon, on laundry day when Peter finally opts to wash the patched-up cold-weather shirt he’d been wearing for the past two months since he first got that cursed tattoo. Having little in the way of mostly-clean clothing options, he’d been forced to wear his T-shirt with the stretched out collar that unfortunately showed the top inch of his wound.

“Where’d chu git that there cut?” Yondu inquires, pulling Peter in closer to examine the irregularly stitched gash over his collarbone near his throat. _It will scar,_ he thinks, frowning at the amateur patch job. Yondu himself is no stranger to scars. His skin is ugly, marred from head to toe with old brands, raised lines, and thick patches, but he had worked hard to ensure Peter wouldn’t suffer the same fate, that his scars would be confined to only the emotional and mental variety. _Who the fuck had dared attack his boy?_ He wants to ask. “Looks deep,” he remarks instead.

Kraglin is eyeing Pete, silently encouraging him to go with one of the many believable covers they had previously discussed, but the boy has other plans. If Peter must make up a back-story for his first scar, it will be sexy and badass.

Like James Bond.

Really… _What Would James Bond Do?_

“So, you see… I sort of got this girlfriend, well… ex-girlfriend now, I guess. Smoking hot. Tits out to here,” he says, cupping his palms and sweeping them in an outward motion to indicate an unlikely combination of size and perkiness.

“Legs for days, and uh…” Peter peers over at his mentor, “Blue. Yeah. Because she’s Kree. And crazy hot and super into me. Anyways, you know that last job I did? I needed to get the information about those artifacts, and the only way to get it was to seduce this little A’askavariian chick in Nova records–”

“Was that before or after you was chased down by guards and had’a fight yer way out?” Yondu interjects.

Peter doesn’t skip a beat. “Before… obviously. I didn’t even get that far with her, if that’s what you’re asking. Anyways, while you were gone, I went to visit my girlfriend and told her about the A’askavariian clerk because we don’t believe in keeping secrets from each other, but then she went ballistic, like real crazy. I tried to explain what had happened, that it was only for the job, but she wouldn’t hear it and attempted to rip out my thorax.”

He starts gesticulating wildly to further illustrate his tall tale. “I managed to fight her off, jumped in my M-ship, slapped a Med-pac on it to hold it together until I could get back. Holding one hand against the wound to staunch the flow of blood, I flew one-handed, successfully evading her pursuing ship by passing through an asteroid field, explosions going off on each side as I effortlessly dodged all her expertly aimed shots. I managed to shake her before I got back to the Eclector.”

There’s a long pause as his audience processes his transparent lie.

_Oh, for the love of– Cap’n is not about to believe that,_ Kraglin thinks, cringing internally. Well, the kid’s on his own now. With Pete’s tattoo erased, Yondu wouldn’t know it matched his own. There was nothing to implicate his involvement.

“Anyways, I didn’t want to bother Doc, so Kraglin helped stitch me up. Isn’t that right, Kraglin?” Pete explains, forcing Kraglin to either corroborate his lie… or snitch.

_That little fucker._

“… Yeah, though I didn’t ask for all the details.” Dropping his voice, Kraglin mumbles, “So many unnecessary details.”

Kraglin observes Yondu’s furrowed brow and deep frown. He knows they’ve been caught due to the preposterous scope and sheer stupidity of Peter’s lie. In thirty seconds, Yondu will call bullshit and string them both up by their toes to extract the truth. He waits for his sentencing with an air of quiet resignation.

“This Kree girl…. She got a name?”

Kraglin stares dumbfounded at Yondu, stunned by his captain’s sudden fortuitous gullibility.

For his part, Yondu knows Quill’s story is far-fetched, the chain of events completely implausible. Sure, the part where he nearly got his throat ripped out was understandable (Yondu himself had considered it twice since breakfast), but no way a woman of the caliber Quill described was actually attracted to the fumbling boy.

_Unless..._

 “Heather Locklear,” Peter answers confidently.

 Yondu nods. _Obviously an alias._ “Uh huh. Any distinguishing marks?”

“The face of an angel, and a dime-sized birthmark on the left cheek of her perfectly round ass so firm you can bounce a token off it leading down to long svelte legs. And did I mention the amazing set of knockers?”

“Right… This chick got a comm signature?”

“Why? Are you going to call her?” At Yondu’s rather serious expression, Peter looks scandalized. How could Yondu hit up his fictitious ex-girlfriend? _How could he?_ “Dude, that’s a violation of the Bro Code!”

“Only code what matters is the Ravager Code. ‘Sides, you let ‘er git away. She’s fair game.” As per usual, Quill’s frustrating romanticism clouds what little sense the boy possessed in his thick skull. But Yondu wouldn’t bend to such soft irrelevancies. No one gets the drop on his boy. If Quill couldn’t (or wouldn’t) finish the job, it was up to Yondu to clean up his mess.

“But she’s _my_ ex. We boned. At least _four_ times!” Yondu’s interest in Heather Locklear is entirely inappropriate and deeply disturbing to Peter.

“I got six toes on my left foot.” Yondu says calmly.

“Huh?” Peter is befuddled at the sudden change of topic. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Well ‘scuse me, I thought we was talkin’ ‘bout shit what don’t matter none.”

Sucking in a frustrated breath, he declares, “You are such an asshole. Find her yourself!”

With that, Peter stomps out.

Yondu waits a full three minutes for the boy’s footsteps to fade into the clacking background noise of the Eclector’s engines before addressing his First Mate.

“Kraglin.”

“Yeah, Cap’n?”

“We’re goin’ huntin’,” Yondu strides to his workstation, already scouring resources and job listings for the suspect alias. “Put a call out to our contacts, track down this ‘Heather Locklear,’ find out who she’s workin’ for, an’ new-tralize the threat.”

Kraglin nervously scratches the back of his neck. “Cap’n, there’s somethin’ you should know. Pete–”

“When I find the bitch responsible for scarrin’ m’ boy, I’m goin’ ta slice out her tongue an’ make ‘er eat it, then I’m goin’ ta feed ‘er her own broken teeth fer dessert. She’ll have to rap out her boss’s name in Intergalactic Standard Code if she values havin’ hands,” Yondu mutters darkly. “Hell, she can always knock with bloody stubs if she holds out too long.”

“…”

Yondu turns to face his trusted first mate. “What was that you was sayin’, Kraglin?”

“…Pete mentioned Heather Locklear was headed towards the Schorra Nebula system.”

“What’re ya waitin’ fer, then? We got dinner plans with a certain blue whore. Would be impolite to stand ‘er up.”

 

* * *

 

**19ish Years Later (Three Years Post-Ego)**

“Now Groot, women are wonderful people who deserve to be treated with kindness and respect,” Peter instructs a teenage Groot. None of the Guardians knew much about Floral Colossus growth patterms, but Groot had recently sprouted spores and was leaking sap all over his sheets. Peter and Rocket had decided it was time to give their collective son The Talk.

“Because if you don’t, they’ll stab ya. Eh, Quill?” Rocket says off-handedly from the sidelines.

“I am Groot?” Groot asks nervously, twisting a vine over and around one wrist.

“He’s only joking,” Peter reassures Groot. To Rocket, his tone betrays annoyance. “Do you mind? I’m trying to impart important life lessons to Groot, and I would appreciate it if you didn’t undermine me every five minutes.”

Rocket crosses his arms and scoffs. “You? Teach Groot how to treat sexual partners? Might as well give the kid a vibranium vest before you send him out to the nearest disreputable bar to pick up some femme fatale with a literal axe to grind. Hell, why don’t you save him the trouble and shank him yourself?”

“Hey, compared to the number of times I’ve gotten laid, the number of stabbings is inconsequential, practically statistically insignificant,” Peter bites back.

That argument is not very encouraging to their intended audience. Groot subtly starts to scoot away from his Terran father.

 “Because some times, your lady-friends forgo the knife and just try to rip out your thorax with their bare hands.”

“…Only when I get caught,” Peter concedes, placing his hands on his hips.

“What was her name anyway?” Rocket asks, rolling his eyes. “The Kree girl that tried to do that. Do you even remember?”

“Um…” he scans his memory for the original cover story. What had he told Yondu all those years ago? It hadn’t been Alyssa Milano. Too obvious. Carrie Fisher? No… Goldie Hawn?

Rocket laughs at Peter’s lapse in memory. Clearly, women attempting to kill him must have been a regular occurrence for the man to be so forgetful. “See, Groot. If you want to charm the ladies, it would be real helpful if you could remember their names. All Quill here can remember is she was blue!”

“I remember more than that! Just give me a minute,” Peter argues, trying to stall. “Her name was… was…”

Just then, Rocket sees Kraglin walking past the door at a fast clip.

He calls out to him. “Say Kraglin, you remember the name of the Kree woman that tried to rip out Quill’s throat? Lover boy here is drawing a blank, on account of how often it happens and all.”

Backtracking a bit to lean against the door frame, a smirk alighting his face, Kraglin asks, “Yer still tellin’ people that Kree girl story?”

“Well, Quill nearly getting mauled always makes for a good story for all,” Rocket replies before Peter can answer.

“It was the dumbest cover story I ever heard,” Kraglin corrects him. “Quill got an embarrassin’ tattoo, an’ cheaped out on the removal. He had’a git it cut off. Didn’t want Yondu to find out, an’ made up all that shit ‘bout his imaginary Kree girlfriend gittin’ jealous o’er some A’askavariian chick he chatted up fer a job.”

Rocket doubles over in laughter, planting one paw on Groot’s leg to keep himself from keeling over. “That… that was the best… you could come up?” he wheezes.

Peter puffs out his upper lip in irritation. “Well, it worked, didn’t it?”

“Yeah, but you should’a seen ‘im back then,” Kraglin adds. “All awkward an’ shit. Wasn’t plausible in the least so far as cover stories go.” He notices too late when Peter’s sour expression turns to icy apprehension.

“It was a what now?” Yondu asks from behind his first mate, having come from the opposite direction when Kraglin failed to show up in response to the sexy photo he had sent him over the comm.

“Uh…”

“You knew?” Yondu growls low, his lust quickly dissipated in the ether of his mounting rage. “I spent three months trackin’ a fuckin’ cover story, an’ ya never once let on that I was wastin’ my time?”

Kraglin holds up his hands in surrender, backing up a step. He is fairly confident his long-time lover wouldn’t turn his arrow on him after so many decades together, but his sense of self-preservation thought otherwise. “Hey, if ya _had_ found a ‘Heather Locklear,’ I would’a said somethin’ ‘fore ya whistled her through.”

Yondu arches his eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe not, but have ya ever right needed an excuse to kill Kree?”

“…Point,” he grumbles. “Still, I can’t believe ya lied ta me to cover fer the boy o’ all people.”

Kraglin drops his hands, inching closer. “An’ you believed ‘im, Yondu. Sure, he can pull now ‘cause he turned out kind’a pretty, but it took him years of trial and error to learn how to use it to his advantage for that story to be even remotely plausible.”

“Hey!” Peter interjects.

“Well obviously if there was a Kree girl, she weren’t with Quill fer his charms. I mean, remember what he was like at 18? Chick repellent.”

“Really, guys?” he says even louder.

The duo continue to ignore Pete as Yondu continues, “She would’a been using him to git to me ‘cause o’ all ‘em silly rumors ‘bout me bein’ soft on the boy. I couldn’t let that stand… her messin with m’ crew. She had’a be stopped.”

“Silly Rumors?” Kraglin repeats sarcastically.

“Ya know I would’a ate ‘im if I didn’t spend so much time raisin’ the brat. I wanted ta git a return on my investment, though at this point… ain’t sure it’s ever goin’a pan out,” Yondu insists. Both turn to glance at first at Peter’s disgruntled expression then at Rocket and Groot sitting off to the side. Rocket has produced a tin of beasties, popping the wriggling worms into his mouth as he watches the proceedings with amusement.

Kraglin sighs. “You ain’t ever goin’a git that time back. Might as well cut yer losses.”

“Don’t think I forgot ya still covered fer the brat, Obfonteri,” Yondu, grouses, clearly annoyed by the long-standing lie.

“C’mon Yondu, don’t be like that,” he wheedles. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I wouldn’t’a lied to ya if I thought you’d’a ever found out.”

“Like that makes it any better?”

“Doesn’t it?” he says, genuine surprise coloring his tone. “Look it li’l Quill. Yer boy managed ta pull the wool o’er yer eyes fer years. It’s mighty impressive. That’s got’a count fer something, yeah?”

Yondu has to admit; the man makes a good argument in his favor. Still…

”I should’a known. ‘Heather Locklear’ don’t even sound like a real name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I once dated this guy who had a couple tattoos. One of them was a very blurry pink tattoo on his forearm. Essentially, it was once all-red and he had tried to get it removed so he would have an easier time finding a real adult job (not sure why sleeves weren’t an option), but he used the wrong wavelength, which caused it to change color and blur instead of being removed entirely. Not sure if this was a DIY removal or an amateurish attempt, but that was the inspiration behind the direction this fic takes.
> 
> Anyways... if you liked it, leave a comment to let me know :)


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